Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
He sighs happily as he pulls me close.
42
TEN POINTS
Axel
A week later
I down the last of my coffee then set the mug in the sink amidst an embarrassingly large pile of empty mugs.
But, whatever.
Who’s going to see them? I leave the kitchen, grab my messenger bag, and head for the door.
You dumbass. Hazel will see them.
Don’t want her thinking I live like a pig. Setting down my bag, I double back to the scene of the messy crime and wash the mugs, putting them in the dish rack to dry.
Then I head to the door again, surveying my pad one more time before I take off. Yup. It’s officially acceptable for a lady to see tonight.
Lady?
Fuck that.
She’s not simply a lady. She’s my woman. My girlfriend. My big love.
On that thought, I smile.
The goddamn grin doesn’t leave my face as I head down the hall of my building and step into the elevator. My buddy Bridger’s in the lift, sporting a ruby-red shirt, checking out his phone. He looks up when he must hear me. Then he arches one brow. “What’s wrong with your face?”
“What is wrong with my face?” I ask, lifting a hand, hunting for…coffee residue?
He points at me, his eyes narrowed. “Your mouth is doing something funny. I think…” He peers quizzically. “Is that a smile?”
Asshole. “Yes. They are common in the species of men when they fall ass-over-elbow in love.” Then I grin wider. “Like yours, dickhead.”
He laughs, but now he’s smiling too. He was the first of the two of us to fall, and he and his girlfriend, Harlow, are disgustingly happy together. “Fine, you got me there,” he says, then shoots me a wide-eyed look. “So, who did you hoodwink?”
The elevator slows at the lobby, and as we leave the building together I tell him. “The one and only Hazel Valentine.”
“No kidding? Harlow loves her books.”
“Harlow has good taste.”
“I love her books too. I’ve been trying to acquire them for my company,” he says. Bridger runs a TV production shop.
“Want me to put in a good word? I imagine you’ll need it. Everyone wants Hazel’s stories,” I say, feeling all the pride in the world.
“Sure, but the four of us should have dinner soon too. As friends. Go to a show.”
“I like musicals,” I say as we hit the street.
“You do?”
“I am a man of many mysteries,” I say.
“You are, Huxley. You are,” he says, then claps me on the shoulder. “You wear happiness well.”
“Thanks, man,” I say, then we head in opposite directions, and I make my way to Chelsea to a familiar haunt.
A coffee shop where I once paid rent. Hazel and I spent so much time at Big Cup that we left rent tips. A few twenties a week in the tip jar. Wi-Fi, caffeine, and a place to park your ass is all a writer needs, and I’m eager to pay it again, since I’ll be working with her.
When I near the familiar shop, my pulse kicks up. I walk a little faster, and once I spot that mane of red hair, I feel both longing and peace. That’s a welcome change—the peace part—from when I’d walk into the shop, twisted and torn over the unrequited feelings that had squatter’s rights in my chest.
Back then, the pain of wanting someone I couldn’t have, of loving someone in secret, ate me alive. Pushed to the emotional brink, I made terrible decisions I regretted.
I’d probably have let that regret eat me alive some more too if she hadn’t come back into my life on that trip and insisted—absolutely, relentlessly insisted—on uncovering what went wrong.
God, I fucking love her for never giving up on us, and on me.
I grab the handle of the door and head inside, marching straight over to my fiery redhead. She’s biting the corner of her lip, tapping away like a madwoman. She’s lost in words, and it’s a beautiful sight.
This is how I started to fall in love with her. Fierce and focused, she’s the breathing manifestation of creativity.
My heart rockets as I close the distance between us, grab the chair, and sit across from her.
Seconds later, she looks up, then blinks. “Oh, I was—”
“Writing a scene where the hero answers the door wearing only a towel.”
She shoots me a don’t you wish you were right look. “As a matter of fact, no.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t make me prove you wrong.”
“Prove it,” I counter.
She spins her laptop around, and slides it toward me. I peer at the screen, reading the first line.
“Oh, no you don’t. Read that shit out loud,” she says, flapping her hand at the silver machine.
I stifle a laugh, then I clear my throat and read. “After an ungodly long shower, where I stood under the scalding-hot stream for a few days—it feels that way at least—I step out and wrap a fluffy white towel around my breasts. As I cinch it closed, the doorbell rings. Seriously? Like I’m going to open the door now anyway. But maybe it’s my friend Penelope, since she just returned to town. It’d be rude to leave her hanging.